Who isn’t fascinated by Lascaux,
The earliest of French impressionism?
—Sophisticated renderings that glow
And gallop in our lamps’ anachronism;
Its zodiacs of animals still dance
As symbols of things we dimly recollect:
The horse, the hunt, the after-dinner trance.—
Did they envision us? Do we suspect,
In the long thaw, that undiscovered caves
Contain more murals underground, telling
The same histoire along forgotten naves?
I close my eyes, and even more compelling
Are passages of thought I’ve yet to find
As painted dreams and prayers inside my mind.